Today my cat caught a bird and brought it into my room to play. The first thought that came to mind, as she started batting it around with her paw, was "I hope she isn't going to bring that onto my bed".
Sometimes, we meet a darker part of ourselves, one who we don't often think of.
Seeing my cat pounce on that bird, tossing it up in the air sometimes before swiping it up again, my head switched between "oh my baby kitty is so awesome!" and "damn there's feathers all over my floor now". Soon, the bird only had one tail feather left, and it twitched on the ground when it wasn't trying to run, batting its wings, or getting shuffled around. Finally, my cat seemed to lose a bit of interest in it, and I stooped down over the bird and grasped a leg with my fingers. I dropped it, feet down, onto a finger to see if it could stand. The thin claws lightly grasped my finger, and the bird shook on my finger. A few moments later my cat stuck its nose up and grabbed the bird back.
I grabbed my camera, snapped a few action shots. It was like watching a cheetah take down a gazelle. Although, I'm not sure if cheetahs play with the gazelle after it is helpless but alive. Or do cheetahs kill so quickly because the gazelle is never really helpless while alive? Or are they just that hungry?
Play, and honing our best skills, are what people do when their primal needs (namely, need for food and shelter) are met. People create music, people draw, people build computers, design games, practice a sport.
A cat's best skill is hunting. My cat is fed well and has a warm bed and lap to return to. She catches mice and birds.
The bird seemed still on the floor, and I picked it up and put it in my palm. That's when I saw the shaking. Two puncture wounds, a patch of feathers gone on the back. I took the bird up to the house to see if my housemate had any advice. She said that she'd either give it back to the cat, or kill it. She didn't think she could kill it. I said I could detach myself equally from either bashing its head with a rock so it dies quickly, or giving it back to the cat. I didn't say that I didn't really need to detach, I didn't think I'd feel much about either decision. Killing it would mean it suffered less, giving it to the cat means I won't have its death on my hands, but it'll die slower, in much pain.
She said it was too much excitement for her, so I took the bird downstairs to the yard. My cat meowed at my door, wanting me to let her into my room. I knelt down but she had no interest in the bird; she just wanted to go inside. I took a rock and held it in my hands. I put the bird down on the concrete. I raised my hand, rock in fist, and I saw it heaving, bleeding. I put the rock back and picked it up, putting it back on my palm. I put the bird on a corner of our garden, on soft ground. Silence.
Suddenly my cat ran in and snatched it back up.
We both went back to my room. She played, and I lost interest soon. Feathers littered the air and ground.
If I killed the bird, I would have taken a life. If I gave it back to the cat, or hid it, or put it somewhere the cat wouldn't get it, it would have suffered a slow painful death. I could selfishly refuse to bloody my hands and let the bird heave and shake for another hour or two, or I could immorally end a life.
Frankly, I was just a bit irritated that I would have to clean up all the feathers from a floor I just scrubbed two days ago.
As I write, the bird is in the trash and my hands have been scrubbed clean.
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